


To those with wings

by iiscos



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, M/M, and parius also lives rent free in my head, but server hunger games can be unintentionally inspiring, gaynst, no one asked for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: “Loyalty will be your downfall,” Julius scoffed, running his hand through his hair in frustration.“And ambition will be yours.”The response was cutting, even if Paris did not intend to sound cruel.
Relationships: Julius Capulet/Paris (Dress Up! Time Princess)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to say other than the gay boys from RnJ is my new hyperfixation ;u;

_In the penance for their uprising, each district shall offer a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping.” These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of The Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena where they will Fight to the Death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore, this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games._

_-The Treaty of Treason_

~~

The Reaping had taken place nearly a month ago, although Julius did not bother to learn the names and faces of this year’s tributes until the morning of the grand Welcoming Ball. He found neither joy nor intrigue in seeing the confident, statuesque portraits of the Career tributes or the hopeless, forlorn faces of those belonging to less prosperous districts. But basic etiquette demanded that he be at least _aware_ of these ill-fated souls, most of whom would soon die painful and horrific deaths for the pointless entertainment of Capitol citizens—such as himself.

Julius sighed as he scanned over the names and photos over his morning tea. One tribute remained missing from the tabloids, the male from his home District of Verona—a moderately wealthy region despite the absence of a Career system that normally would have shielded the children of affluent families from the perils of a reaping. But rumors had pervaded the Capitol that—despite the _infinitesimally_ small odds—the young heir to the Prince of Verona had been chosen to represent this year’s Hunger Games. The Prince, however, elected a nephew instead, claiming that his nephew was much better suited for bringing victory to their District, and whose likely death—Julius thought cynically—would be much less disruptive to the future of the royal family’s reign. 

_A mercenary_ , Julius mused, _a rare species, indeed._ In previous games, mercenaries had performed admirably well, although they often lacked the grooming of Careers and the romanticism of martyrs. Few had survived until the very end to claim victory, and Julius expected that this year would prove to be no different. 

~~

His father took the liberty of announcing his engagement to the eldest of the Montague daughters during the Welcoming Ball. Julius stood beside Lady Romy, wearing matching painted smiles before their applauding audience. This was a political marriage, a union that would join two of the most powerful families in the Capitol. Love had no place in this equation, but neither was it necessary. Julius was well-versed in pretending—after all, he had been pretending his entire life. And it was something that came _almost_ naturally to him, maintaining this ideal image of himself that mirrored back any expectations demanded from society or his family. 

Romy, however, did not seem as talented an actor, and she would have to find peace on her own terms if they were to proceed with this arrangement at the turn of the year. 

Julius danced with Romy twice and then, once with her cousin Bellona. In the corner of his eyes, he could catch a head of bright blonde hair belonging to the only person he did not recognize at the ball—the male tribute from Verona, who had elected not to attend the showcase earlier, where the other tributes displayed their talents and skills in hopes of garnering support from sponsors. 

Julius stole a few more glances as he spun around on the dance floor. The tribute appeared to be in his late teens—stern-faced, tall, and broodingly handsome. He wore the discipline of a soldier and the poise of a swordsman, and certainly—Julius thought—he could have gained the favor of several sponsors had he made an effort to attend.

But this tribute seemed disinterested in forming relations even now, despite the presence of several prominent figures who could easily and significantly raise his chances of survival. And whether this was due to resignation or hubris, Julius could not say for sure. 

He waited until the tribute had finished his third glass of wine before casually approaching.

“Do you not care for a dance?” he asked, swirling his own glass before him.

Sharp, brown eyes locked with his, although the features surrounding that intense stare remained impassive. “I am not here to dance,” the tribute responded curtly, “So no, I do not.”

“Some would consider it poor behavior,” Julius insisted, “When a man refuses to ask a free woman to dance at a ball.”

“Consider your own behavior then,” replied the other man, the twitch of his brow the only visible sign of his irritation. The subject of dances must have sounded so flippant, useless, and _indescribably_ stupid to someone waiting on death row—as were the extravagant showcases and this Welcoming Ball.

“Oh, but I _have_ danced,” Julius corrected, feigning a look of bewilderment.

“With no more than two ladies, I believe,” countered the tribute, “While so many are in want of a dance partner, as you have claimed.”

Julius hid his smile behind his wine glass, intrigued by the tribute’s response despite the sharp-edge of his tone. Was this man normally so keenly aware of his surroundings that he would commit the dance partners of strangers to memory? Or, perhaps, was Julius special?

“Nice of you to take note of my dance partners,” he teased, “Instead of dancing yourself.”

A blush spread across the tribute’s face, although so faint that Julius could very well ascribe it to a trick of the light. 

“The time I spent on dance practice was not wasted then,” he continued in the wake of the other man’s silence, “If even you, who shies away from the dance floor, had taken notice.”

The tribute huffed in annoyance, turning away. “And neither should you waste your time speaking to me now, with so many ladies waiting for a dance.”

“I am fond of dancing and women,” Julius interjected before his new acquaintance could properly make his leave, “Although, I am more fond of my fellow man.”

Redness tinged the other’s face, this time strikingly and without a doubt. Julius watched as the tribute tightened his jaw, his Adam’s apple bobbing soundlessly while he attempted to regain his composure. 

He had spoken too boldly—he supposed—but why should that matter? In all likelihood, he was talking to a dead man. 

“My name is Julius Capulet,” Julius offered in the ensuing silence. 

“I had been present since the commencement of the ball,” the tribute gritted his teeth, appearing equally vexed with Julius as he was with himself, for allowing his reaction to escape. “I am aware of who you are.”

“It is but a formality,” Julius smiled, bridging the distance that the other had previously yielded. “I wish to learn your name.”

The tribute hesitated, observing him with unwavering, guarded eyes, before relinquishing—with no small amount of reluctance—a given name at last.

“Paris.”

~~

Julius did not have a plan, although he made a valiant effort to appear as if he did. He had extended the offer of swiping a bottle of wine for themselves and escaping into the garden, to which—much to his initial thrill—Paris agreed.

Paris followed him wordlessly as they traversed the garden, while Julius made a show of inspecting their surroundings, as if trying to decide on an acceptable spot to settle. 

Although in reality, thoughts pertaining to an entirely different matter rushed through his mind, as he pondered what Paris must be expecting from him, now that he had successfully convinced the other man to what could easily and _naturally_ be considered—for lack of a better description—a late night rendezvous.

Julius was the son of a wealthy sponsor, and Paris was a tribute. Was Paris anticipating a bargain of some sort, so that he might gain Julius’ favor in exchange for—

“Why did you agree to come with me?” Julius demanded suddenly, his gut knotting at that dreadful, nauseating prospect. 

Paris paused beside him, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “Why did you ask?”

Confidence wavering, Julius forced himself to admit, “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I suppose I wanted a word in private— _just_ a word.”

“Well, then,” Paris glanced at the secluded darkness around them.“What is it that you wish to say?”

What _did_ he want to say? Or more accurate yet, what _could_ he say to someone who would soon be forced to murder or be murdered for the sake of the Capitol’s entertainment— _Julius’_ entertainment. The circumstance surrounding their meeting was indefensibly and horrifyingly absurd. 

But he must say _something_ , after cajoling Paris into coming all this way with him. But in that moment, language felt insufficient in capitulating his distress, his _needs_.

“Why did you take the place of the Prince’s heir?” Julius asked, holding back his grimace. 

Paris glared at him. The question was as stupid as it sounded. “The _Prince’s heir_ certainly cannot perish in this ridiculous farce.”

“But _you_ can—or at least, you are willing,” Julius stated, as Paris turned away without even dignifying him with a response this time. “But— _why you_?”

“Because I am the Prince’s sword,” explained the tribute, “His most trusted guard.”

“And so, you are given the honor of dying a pointless death,” Julius gritted out—bitter resentment finally knitting itself into words. “Does the Prince truly believe you could win? Or did he sentence you to death because he refused to relinquish his heir to the senseless bloodshed that he had so unabashedly endorsed since his rise to the crown.”

Paris turned to him wide-eyed, taken aback by the unexpected and sudden acerbity. Julius did not allow him a window to respond, however, his tirade pouring like water from a collapsed dam.

“But to maintain this pretense as a monarch of the people, your Prince chose to _selflessly_ sacrifice someone else whom he claims to hold dear—his most trusted guard, his knight, his _sword_ —valuable, yet dispensable. How masterful of a plot this was—to shield his own cowardice and hypocrisy from his people.”

“What knowledge do you have of Verona’s affairs?” Paris spoke at last, his eyes glinting dangerously beneath the somber glow of the moon. “What right have you to criticize the Prince?”

“I used to be a citizen of Verona,” Julius exclaimed. The heritage of the Capulet family—as with all the powerful families affiliated with the Capitol—was common knowledge in the political sphere, but Julius felt it important enough to emphasize, even if Paris already knew. “I am well aware of Verona’s decaying roots.”

“And now, you are a citizen of the Capitol,” Paris seethed with barely contained rage, “The son of one of the highest paying sponsors of the games.”

And— _yes_ —that was also true. The irony had not escaped Julius.

“I am not my father,” he declared, although his words sounded worthless, empty. “Once I inherit his position, I plan to work towards ending the games. I _will_ end the games.”

Before now, he had not told anyone of his intentions. It was simply too dangerous of an idea, borderline treason. But here he was, blurting out all his secrets to a complete stranger—albeit, a stranger on borrowed time. Was this why he had behaved so brazenly out of character—he thought viciously—because the dead could not talk?

“Do you believe me?” he asked, although he could not fathom why that should matter at all.

“I believe you will try,” Paris answered after a pause, a twinge of derision was all that remained from his previous fury. “Although, I may not be present to witness your triumph.”

Bitterly, nonsensically, Julius wished to demand Paris to live, if only so he could prove himself correct.

Swallowing the resentment lodged in his throat, he uncorked the wine that he had been stupidly holding this entire time, before taking a long, angry swig straight from the bottle. He grimaced as the liquid settled poorly in his stomach, wiping away a stray droplet that had rolled down his chin. He glared at Paris once more, only to find the tribute watching him with that intense, hawk-like stare.

Julius heaved a sigh, offering the bottle of wine, and after a brief moment of consideration, Paris accepted. Their fingers brushed gently during this exchange, and Julius fought the shiver that crawled down his spine, as the warm imprint of their touch faded in the brisk, night air. 

“May I ask you something?” Paris spoke, after taking a much more measured sip from the bottle. 

“Of course.” Julius pressed his fingers to his eyes, rubbing away his exhaustion.

“Do you attempt to talk every tribute out of competing in the games—if that is indeed what this is—even though the decision is by no means ours to make?”

“No, that would be fruitless. And insane.”

“So why are you subjecting me to this fruitless insanity?” 

_Why indeed?_ Julius had no answer. The games had been an annual tradition for longer than he had been alive. Every autumn, two dozen _children_ were forced to brutally murder one another—many of them were much younger—frail, untrained, terrified. While not here by choice as were the Career tributes, Paris was at least a soldier. He should not be the one in most need of sympathy.

“I owe my life to the Prince,” Paris explained when a response from Julius appeared unforthcoming. “And I will gladly relinquish it for the welfare of the royal family. I have the support of the Prince and of the citizens of Verona, and I will fight and die in their honor, as that was the purpose of my existence all along.”

Oddly, those sounded like words of comfort—not for himself, but for Julius. It appeared that Paris had made peace with his fate long ago, and he appreciated neither pity nor scorn from this intrusive stranger.

“Loyalty will be your downfall,” Julius scoffed, running his hand through his hair in frustration. 

“And ambition will be yours.” 

The response was cutting, even if Paris did not intend to sound cruel.

Julius frowned. What could this be referring to? His insistence on having this conversation with Paris? His heedless promise to bring an end to the games? His determination to proceed with a loveless, political marriage in order to achieve his goals?

Julius knew exactly what he needed to do, and whom exactly he needed to become, in order to accrue the wealth and power necessary to make a difference in the world. But until then, he had resigned himself to hiding his true intentions— _his true self_ —behind a carefully calculated mask.

And even if everything would eventually fall into place, it was not like he could bring the dead back to life...

“If you were to win,” he began, ignoring the lilt in his voice that could foolishly be construed as hope. “Will you come find me?”

A beat of silence passed, before Paris gave his response. “It depends on your intention.”

It was Julius’ turn to blush, and in that moment, he was grateful for the darkness that covered them like a shroud. Paris did not overlook his reaction, however, shifting uneasily before amending his previous answer. “I do not think that would be wise, as you are engaged to be married.”

The rejection was not a surprise exactly, but the disappointment that followed was. There was no purpose, no logic, in anguishing over an unlikely hypothetical—and yet, he had found himself fighting the beginnings of a flowering ache.

“Is that your only reason?” Julius then asked, apparently resolute in forgoing any semblance of pride he had remaining.

And after another long, excruciating silence beneath the weight of those unyielding eyes, Paris replied solemnly, “Yes, I suppose.”

~~

The transition to awareness from wine-hazy sleep was painful, unpleasant, and slow. Julius clutched his pounding head as the first rays of dawn speared through the foliage above him. He was waking up in the gardens surrounding the Capitol’s reception hall—he soon acknowledged—and more importantly, he was waking up alone.

Paris had remained with him for the duration of the night that he could still recall. They had passed the wine bottle back and forth and spoke of nothing in particular—harmless anecdotes of their youths and other quiet thoughts normally hidden away. At some point, Julius must have fallen asleep, and at some point after that, Paris must have left—although not before he had covered Julius with the suit jacket he had worn to the ball.

Julius pushed himself to sit, grimacing at the ache in his head that almost overshadowed the despondency in his heart. And only then did he notice the fingers of his left hand curling loosely around a warm, foreign weight.

He looked down to find an ornate, silver dagger in his possession, which most certainly did not belong to him. Pulling the sleek weapon from its sheath, he noticed the engraved words in bold, cursive latin.

_Alis grav nil_ , it read.

_Nothing is heavy to those with wings._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> afadhjk im sorry if im being too emo
> 
> and this was supposed to be a one-shot :')

They truly danced splendidly—the dashing Capulet heir and the beautiful Montague heiress—spinning at the center of the ballroom like glass figurines in a child’s music box.

 _How right they looked together,_ their entranced audience had whispered, _What a lovely and fine pair they made?_

And how absurd was their introduction, Paris—in a far corner—silently seethed, as if the decadence of a grand banquet could eclipse the massacre to come. Or the happy news of a royal engagement could quieten the rattle of death.

_Do you not care for a dance?_

Those would forever be the first words that Julius had spoken to him, and given the circumstances surrounding their acquaintance, Paris had found them ignorant at best, spiteful at worst.

Julius was beguiling and beautiful upon first glance—the personification of the gleaming Capitol itself, that—despite all its glamor— _must_ be rotten at the core.

Julius had then flirted with him, teased him, and Paris was unsure as to why he had allowed such behavior to continue—other than, perhaps, the grim satisfaction of knowing that the perfect couple he had witnessed earlier was nothing but an illusion.

And just as he had refused to parade himself like a circus lion before wealthy sponsors, Paris was too proud to barter away his dignity now, for some cheap alliance. He supposed he followed Julius into the garden because he wished for affirmation—to be handed irrevocable proof that, beneath his charm and honey-sweet voice, Julius was as heartless as any forgettable citizen within this odious city.

And maybe then, Paris would not find him so beautiful.

Resentment and attraction—what a ludicrous combination?

As they ventured deeper into the garden, however, more and more of that glimmering facade fell. And the very power that Paris had expected Julius to flaunt only seemed to diminish him beneath its weight.

 _I supposed I wanted a word in private—_ just _a word._

On the grandest stage, Julius gave such a phenomenal performance that any observer would be fooled. But alone in the night, hidden in the shadows with his unlikely companion, gone was the confident heir with the world at his fingertips, and standing in his place was a distressed young man who had felt helpless, confused, and taken aback by the force of his own unanswerable emotions.

Paris listened more than he spoke, as Julius labored through the contradictions that defined his life. He would not go as far as to _pity_ a young master born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but how disappointed he had been to learn that Julius _—_ whom he was determined to loathe _—_ was neither hollow nor cruel.

On the contrary, he appeared resolute _—destined—_ to bring about great change, even if in that moment, he was the most solitary man in the world.

_If you were to win, would you come find me?_

The question was as strange as it was pointless, and neither should have his response mattered. But then, he saw the look of chastened disappointment on Julius’ face, and it made him wish he hadn’t been so hasty with his answer after all.

Because the truth was—he didn’t know. And he didn’t want to imagine an instance where, or a reason why, he might find Julius again, when that time most likely would never come.

~~

Paris asked for his sword.

He knew that Verona was not as prosperous as it once was, and the Prince could not match the financial support of other powerhouse districts, so the only aid he requested from his Highness was his sword, so that he may fight and die on his own terms.

On the first evening, he received the silver parachute that held his weapon. He had taken refuge atop a tree, watching with pity as bands of Career tributes slaughtered those naive enough to light a fire in the frigid darkness of the night.

And much to his surprise, another parachute followed in quick succession, this time carrying a canteen of water, which _—_ he must admit—was perhaps the second most useful gift he could have received.

He pinched his brows in confusion upon finding a note and carefully unfurled the parchment to reveal a single sentence penned in an ink so dark that, beneath the glow of the harvest moon, the words practically leapt from the blank page. And in spite of the formal, elegant cursive, the tone of the writer was accusatory.

_What right have you to leave me that gift?_

Paris nearly laughed at the absurdity of the message because—who else could have sent it other than a spoiled, young master unaccustomed to losing. Even now, Julius _must_ have his last word. What inordinate amount of money it must have cost to sponsor a gift on his own, and in such short notice?

The dagger he had left for Julius was an heirloom, passed to him from parents who did not survive long enough for him to remember their faces. It was his most treasured possession, and he had been reluctant to leave it behind, even though he knew that eventually he would have to let it go.

On a whim, he had slipped it into Julius’ hand before they parted ways that night, after the young heir had finally succumbed to exhaustion and wine. Julius would never know just how much that dagger meant to Paris, but the message engraved at least felt like a fitting goodbye.

_Alis grav nil._

~~

Two more days passed, with half the tributes already fallen, Paris received another gift—a container of lamb stew—which he vaguely remembered mentioning to Julius that he had once enjoyed as a child.

The accompanying note, this time, read:

_Do you think, in a different life, we could have been friends?_

The tone was gentler this time, as if underlying the question was a soft apology for the indignation he had shown in the last letter.

A sudden surge of loneliness overcame Paris as the words sank in, which — he acknowledged — was ridiculous, as he was no more alone now than he had been before reading that note.

Could they have been friends?

Paris had a mentor and a master in the Prince, and allies in his fellow guards, but he never truly grasped the art of forging friendships. And without a family or loved ones to mourn for his passing, it had only seemed logical for the Prince to ask for his sacrifice here…

Loneliness rarely crossed his mind, for he had always been alone, but this message seemed to mirror that sentiment somehow, which Paris found entirely absurd. Julius had a family, a fiancé, countless friends—but, then again, how many of them truly saw beyond his masterful disguise? How many knew that underpinning his ruthless ambition was an immutable sense of justice, and that his air of poised, collected confidence only shrouded the reality that he would never be the man his family intended him to be?

Was it possible that Julius felt just as alone despite being a star around which planets revolved?

That night, Paris dreamed of this other life, where the Capulets never left Verona, and instead of hours, he and Julius had years and years. How insufferable Julius must have been as a child? How petulant, how sweet?

 _Loyalty will be your downfall_. The echo of those words rang true in his mind.

And in that dream, in that different life, Paris imagined following Julius until the end of the world.

~~

Paris did not feign alliances, knowing that the end could only lead to betrayal. He fought and killed in self-defense, although he did end the life of one young girl out of pity, after finding her mauled beyond recognition by some mutated beasts.

When he finally encountered the Career tributes, their indomitable clan had dwindled from four to two. Paris slayed one and managed to escape the other, but not without suffering an arrowhead lodged deep within his shoulder.

Medicine arrived for him before his wound could fester, and along with the gift came another note that left his heart lurching even more than the last.

_Return, please, even to snub my foolish questions. I rather you a stranger than a ghost._

There was so much to unpack in so few words, that Paris couldn’t help but stare and stare at the tiny slip of parchment. 

_Return_ —Julius wished for him to return, when previously, outside of duty and toiling purpose, he had nothing and no one to return to. _Please_ —as though his desperation wasn’t already clear— _even to snub my foolish questions_ —for Julius was offering him a choice, that he should answer only if he desired to. And above all else _—I rather you a stranger than a ghost—_ in that knowing him _alive_ was consolation enough, even if Paris opted to remove himself from Julius upon his triumph. Even if he were never to reciprocate the affection he was given.

Sympathy, desperation, unconditional kindness—together, these sentiment almost sounded like _love_.

Paris understood so little about love, but in that moment, the utter myriad of undefinable things he felt for Julius made him wonder that—if given the chance—perhaps love might eventually become one of them.

~~

On the seventh day, the arena rained fire.

In his frantic scramble to escape, Paris lost track of what possessions he was forced to abandon, only to notice the charred exterior of his backpack upon finding shelter in a cave. He rummaged through the bag to retrieve those three small sheets of parchment —one of them crumpled, another burned at the edges—but all of them survived enough to remain legible and whole.

And only then did he realize just how devastated he would have been, if those letters had indeed been lost.

_What right have you to leave me that gift?_

_Do you think, in a different life, we could have been friends?_

_Return, please, even to snub my foolish questions. I rather you a stranger than a ghost._

He read those words, again and again, and pressed the parchment to his lips once the ink was no longer discernible through the veil of tears in his eyes. 

~~

He supposed he should be grateful that the last person standing before him was a Career tribute, a fearsome warrior, a man perhaps even more determined to slay him — and therefore, someone whom he would feel little remorse in defeating.

The final duel culminated to a battle of swords, as he and the tribute swung and parried for what felt like an eternity, matching one another in strength and skill, rage and exhaustion, and the daunting realization that, in one way or another, this nightmare would soon reach its end.

Blood mixed into the dirt beneath. His enemy cursed, furious that Paris had caught his shoulder with the edge of his blade. Another collision left a gaping wound along Paris' ribs, but he managed to drag his sword across the other man’s thigh, crippling him just enough to deal his final blow. Red-tinged steel plunged through the tendons of his opponent’s neck, as the Career tribute sputtered and choked on the blood gushing into his throat.

Paris held steady his sword until the vicious thunderheads of the other man’s eyes faded to a dull, lifeless gray, and only when he heard the echo of the firing cannon in the distance did he allow himself to collapse beside his fallen foe.

He had won.

Although, he was also bleeding out onto the upheaved ground.

 _Return, please,_ he could almost hear the soft, pleading melody of Julius’ voice.

And as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, the last thought that occupied his mind was that— _yes,_ he must stay alive. And once he returned to Julius, he shall neither be a stranger nor a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reunion in the next part, i promise!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated <33


End file.
